Wickham and Willoughby Sing the Blues
by Eliza Donelittle
Summary: The rogues from Pride and Prejudice, and Sense and Sensibility, George Wickham and John Willoughby, chance to meet at an inn one night. And what will they discuss over several bottles of wine but their lost loves. A one shot story.


Wickham and Willoughby Sing the Blues

Willoughby stared down at his wine, twirling the glass between his long fingers. There was a tap at the door, it opened, and the plump and buxom landlady of the Blue Boar put her head around it.

'Begging your pardon, sir,' she said, 'but there's a military gentleman outside. He was wondering if he might beg the favour of sharing your parlour? There's an uncommon rough loud crowd out here tonight.'

Willoughby considered for a long moment, but any company was better than his own dark and bitter thoughts, so he nodded assent.

The landlady withdrew and presently reappeared with a gentleman in military garb.

'There you are, sir, this gentleman has agreed to you coming in.'

The military gentleman said to her, 'I knew you were as kind as you were beautiful, the moment I saw you.'

'There now, you gentlemen will have your fancies,' she said, smiling.

Willoughby could see the stranger had the landlady wrapped around his little finger. Willoughby asked her to bring another glass. As soon as the door was shut, the gentleman made a graceful half bow.

'Captain George Wickham, at your service. I owe you a debt of gratitude for rescuing me from those low fellows in the saloon.'

Willoughby saw a handsome man of mid height with curly dark hair and laughing brown eyes. He was rather disheveled, and his red coat was dusty. Willoughby realised to his surprise that this Captain George Wickham had a superficial resemblance to himself.

'Think nothing of it,' he replied.

The landlady returned with the glass and set it on the table before departing.

'Would you care for a glass of wine?'

Wickham indicated that he would. Willoughby poured him one out, filling it to the brim.

'Your very good health, sir.' Wickham tossed half the glass down his throat. 'By God, I needed that.' Then he asked, 'Might I know who I have the honour of addressing?'

'John Willoughby. Might I ask how you came to be here, Captain Wickham?'

'I'd hired a nag and by the devil's own luck, it cast a shoe near this village. I'll have to put up at this hostelry tonight and hope the blacksmith can replace the shoe tomorrow.' He gestured at his dusty coat. 'That's why I resemble a scarecrow.'

Willoughby noted he did not say what business brought him into the area. 'Have you eaten?' he asked. 'The landlady will be bringing me my supper soon and you're welcome to join me.'

Captain Wickham brightened. 'That's uncommonly decent of you,' he said, 'but you must allow me to order another bottle of claret to accompany our meal.'

'I'd be very happy to,' he said, smiling.

The landlady soon bustled in, followed by a maid, both carrying dishes of mackerel, a shoulder of beef, pickled vegetables and a savoury tart. The maid was pretty with fair hair, a fresh complexion and big blue eyes. Wickham's gaze followed her as she put the dishes on the table, and curtseyed. He asked the landlady to bring a bottle of claret. She said she would bring it directly.

'Oh! Let the girl bring it,' Wickham said carelessly, 'A woman of many responsibilities like you shouldn't be at the beck and call of all and sundry.'

The girl looked at him, looked away and blushed. The landlady gave him a considering glance. 'Don't you worry about that, I'm happy to wait on quality,' she assured him.

Once the women left, they fell to eating and there was no conversation for some time. They finished Willoughby's bottle. The fresh bottle of claret disappeared in no time, and when the girl came to collect the plates, another bottle was ordered.

'What's your name?' Wickham asked the girl as she gathered up the dirty crockery and cutlery.

'Polly, sir,' she said.

'A pretty name for a pretty girl.'

She blushed and giggled.

'Is the landlady your mother?' he asked.

'Lord, no sir. I work for her, that's all.'

'You brighten this inn like a rose in the desert, Polly.'

She blushed again, curtseyed rather confusedly and left the room.

Polly brought the fresh bottle. As she placed it on the table, Wickham took her hand and kissed it. She said, 'Lord, sir, what are you like?' giggled and slowly left with several backward glances at him. Willoughby half smiled.

What shall we drink to?' asked Wickham as the door closed behind her.

'To our wives?' suggested Willoughby.

'God forbid!' They both laughed.

'To our lost loves. Do you have a lost love, Willoughby?'

Willoughby wasn't sure whether to be amused or insulted by the familiarity. But Wickham was a good fellow, he decided in the mellowing brought on by several glasses of wine.

'Yes,' he said, gazing at the dark burgundy liquid swirling in his glass, 'yes, I have a lost love. A nonpareil of a woman. Beautiful, passionate, innocent. A rare gem of a woman.'

'What happened?'

'Damnable poverty and relatives that forced me to marry a rich woman instead of the woman I loved or be thrown into the gutter. And I've regretted it ever since.'

'Your wife is not to your taste?'

Willoughby set his glass down with a thump on the table. 'Would a harridan and a shrew be to your taste?' he demanded.

Wickham shook his head. 'Decidedly not. No, whatever you can say about my wife and you could say many things, a shrew is not among them.'

'Lucky you,' Willoughby said and meant it.

Wickham shook his head again. 'Not a shrew but a slattern, of easy temper and easy virtue, that's my wife.'

'Why did you marry her?'

Wickham's face darkened. 'Like you, I was forced into marriage. My damnable debts. I married her on the promise that all debts would be paid, and an allowance given. I was threatened with debtor's prison if I did not. My God, when I think what I put up with, what a pitiful allowance it is! Barely enough to cover even half my expenses. Whereas the woman I truly loved, ah, what a woman she is. Clever, witty, with the most beautiful dark eyes you ever did see.'

Willoughby felt compelled to the virtues of his lost love. 'Mine had the fairest face you ever saw with big blue eyes, long glossy dark tresses and the sweetest pouting mouth.' He sighed then raised his glass. 'To Marianne Dashwood!'

Wickham also raised his glass. "To Elizabeth Bennet!'

They glared at each other, both brandishing a glass and eager to defend the superiority of their love. Then they laughed and drank the glasses down.

Willoughby's mood changed. 'Of course, she's no longer Marianne Dashwood. Now she's Marianne Brandon.'

Wickham asked sympathetically, 'Married another, did she?'

'Married an old stick of a man, Colonel Brandon, twice her age and ugly to boot. When I think of her in his bed…' Willoughby shuddered and refilled his glass. 'I can't bear to think of it.'

Wickham nodded. 'Lizzie is married too. And to my worst enemy.'

'No!'

'Of all the men in all the world, she has to marry the one I detest the most. Mr. Darcy of Pemberly, a proud, cruel, miserly man.'

Willoughby refilled Wickham's glass. 'Tell me more.'

Wickham didn't need any more encouragement to tell his tale. 'To think that in our youth, we might have been considered brothers. We were more or less raised in the same household. My father worked for his father as his most trusted and valued servant. I was a great favourite of Mr. Darcy senior, and I think that made Darcy jealous for he was a great, sullen lump of a boy with never a smile for anyone. Before his father died, he promised me a living, the best in his gift. But after his death, when the living became available, Darcy reneged on that promise and made me a paltry gift in lieu of it. I protested but had no redress as it had been a verbal agreement.'

Willoughby raised his eyebrows. The man sitting next to him did not seem a likely candidate for the priesthood. 'Do you think you would have liked being a vicar?' he asked.

Wickham flushed. 'Decidedly. Do not judge me by the way I look and act today. I have had a hard time of it since then. Darcy deliberately made my life as difficult as possible. He spread falsehoods that I attempted to abduct his sister.'

'Good God!'

'Good God, indeed!' agreed Wickham. 'And the worst of it is, he poisoned Elizabeth's mind against me. I fell into his trap. How, he must laugh when he thinks of it.' He drained his glass and stared moodily into it.

'I have had a similar experience. The ward of Colonel Brandon told the world that I was the father of her unborn child. That I had seduced and abandoned her.'

'The ward of Colonel Brandon, eh?' said Wickham, raising an eyebrow. 'What a coincidence. A vicious lie, I presume.'

'Exactly so,' Willoughby asserted. 'It seems to me that we have a vast deal in common.'

'So, it would seem. The Fates have been against us.'

'The Fates and wicked men," said Willoughby solemnly.

They again clinked glasses.

'To the downfall of hypocritical, so-called respectable gentlemen. Those who conspire against unlucky men, and marry women they don't deserve,' Wick said, raising his glass.

Willoughby raised his. 'To their downfall,' he echoed.

They continued drinking until Willoughby decided it was time for bed. He drunkenly bade his companion goodnight and staggered to his room.

He awoke in the morning to uproar. His boon companion, Captain George Wickham, had crept out in the chilly early hours and departed without paying. When Willoughby came to pay for his room and board, his purse felt lighter than it had the previous evening. As he prepared to depart, he saw that the maid, Polly, was about her work with reddened eyes and a downcast face. He wondered what lies Wickham had told her the night before. He hoped he never came across the rogue again.


End file.
